There's a bird outside my home, sitting atop a nest on a tree branch beneath my dining room window in Bulls Head. Waiting for her eggs to hatch, she hadn't left the nest since I discovered her presence about two weeks ago. But that has changed.

On Saturday evening, she appeared to be rising higher in her nest, and, on Sunday Morning, my wife and I realized our little winged visitor, who we believe to be a dove, had made the transition from egg warmer to full-fledged mom. Since then, we've only seen her off the nest on one occasion, briefly resting on a limb beside it, and surveying the newest members of her family.

We've taken the bird under our wing, so to speak, looking at her, from not much more than an arm's length, as a pet. So, we've given her a name -- Fiona.

On Monday morning, another bird -- seemingly Fiona's mate, stopped by for a visit, squeezing alongside her on the nest, and sharing in a gentle snuggle.

We check on Fiona each day and marvel at the nature of this small, determined being instinctively battling the elements in the name of motherhood.

We watched her on unseasonably warm or cool days, and during wind-swept, branch-rattling, feather-soaking rain as she braced herself in order to protect her then shell-encased offspring, and now, her chicks.

We've seen Fiona hunker down under downpours, gently stretch during peaceful moments, and
rebuild the damaged edges of her nest.

Even our 20-month-old granddaughter has expressed her fascination with Fiona, asking to be picked up so she can see the bird.

Our granddaughter will be sleeping over on Friday (it can't get much better than this if you're a grandparent). Come morning, when we look out the dining room window, our family's youngest addition may finally get a bird's-eye view of Fiona's new brood. This is nature at its best.